The Silver Thread
by Ravenya03
Summary: Out of all the frustrating things about the S2 finale, I was especially annoyed about the lack of closure between my favourite OT3: Will, Djaq and Allan. So this is my attempt to fill in the blanks of their complex relationship that the show sadly ignored


_The S2 finale of "Robin Hood" has to be the biggest wall-banger I've ever seen. Everything was wrong. Everything. It was like watching a different show. Apart from the obvious mistakes (taking them to the Holy Land in the space of an ad-break, having King Richard as the dumbest King ever, everyone except Much acting out of character, and of course, Marian's fate) there was an added insult in the total lack of interaction between Will, Djaq and Allan. There was...nothing. I still can't believe it, especially given all the build-up of Will and Allan's reconciliation in "Lardner's Ring" and "Walkabout," and Djaq's continual defense of Allan in his absence. _

_Okay, I'll shut up now. Here's the story, rectifying my grievance._

* * *

**The Silver Thread**

**Part One: Nettlestone**

It was the nightmare that had woken him up, the dream that had been haunting him for weeks. A silver thread unravelled before him, stretching impossibly far into the distance, over miles of sea and sand. And yet – as was the way in dreams – he could see that it ended at the feet of the far-off figures of Djaq and Will, beckoning to him from leagues away. All he had to do was follow the fragile thread, the thread that was pulling him toward them, toward his far-off destination.

Now his mind felt as though it was being flung about in a dozen different directions as his horse crashed through the underbrush of the forest toward Nettlestone. Along with his fears that he was already too late, and his attempts to pull together a plausible bluff to charm his way past the mercenaries, he felt as though some part of him was still back in that dark inn, listening to the chorus of voices that had filled up his head in the darkness, whilst another part was flying ahead to Nettlestone and the faces of those he'd given up for what he'd thought was a promising future.

And another part of him was still with Marian in that cold barn. He was queasy about abandoning her there. Robin wouldn't be impressed once he found out, and he'd forgotten to warn her about Guy – that the hulking man's suspicions about her and Robin were intensifying by the day. She was walking a fine line in her treatment of the unstable man, and he knew instinctively that if anything were to happen to her before he'd made amends with the others, any possibility of reconciliation would be lost to him forever, the silver thread severed for good. For months now, she'd been his only link to the others. By helping her, however reluctantly, he'd been helping them.

But Guy was completely besotted with her, filled with the kind of intensity that would turn deadly if revealed to be based on a falsehood. She was treading close to the edge, the carefully constructed vision of herself that she'd set up for him swiftly crumbling, and his suspicions were sharpening. Only desperate hope and a steady, determined refusal to consider the blatantly obvious evidence that Marian was deceiving him stayed his hand. If only she would stay smart, make herself safe, keep silent long enough for Robin and the others to reach her… She was stubborn and impetuous, yet more cunning than either Robin or Guy gave her credit for, as well as completely, utterly terrifying. More than one of his all-too-frequent nightmares involved spinning knives hurtling toward his face…she'd be alright. It was the others who needed him now.

_I believe you're a good man._

_Brothers in arms again._

The last words each of them had spoken to him. It was those words that had done it in the end, finally helped to make up his mind, even though they weren't true; he'd managed to prove them false time and time again. But if he could salvage some of the faith they'd had in him, even if the others killed him on sight, perhaps it would be worth it.

The trees parted and he looked down upon a meek looking barn, surrounded by circles of mercenaries – he swallowed his fear and prepared his bluff.

* * *

**Part Two: Voyage to Acre**

It had become obvious what had happened in his absence. They couldn't stop looking at each other, they held hands as they boarded the vessel, they smiled at each other every time they thought no one was looking – a strange, secret smile that excluded everyone else in the world. He had been foolish, so stupid, to think he could fill his usual place among the others as easily as he'd left it, that nothing would have changed in his absence, idiotic to think these two good, noble people wouldn't find each other in the space he'd left behind. He swallowed his disappointment and bided his time. It wasn't too late, he told himself. There was still a chance to tell her, to change her mind about things.

However, finding a quiet moment alone on board a bustling ship was impossible. She was never too far away from Will for a start, and neither did it help that the rolling and rocking of the ship was having a serious effect on his stomach. He spent most of his time on crouching on the deck, leaning over the side at regular intervals.

_Why can't I ever get a break,_ he wondered. _For months, all I wanted was to be back with the lads, and then they go and stick me on this ruddy ship._

This in itself made him reluctant to seek her out, as to pour out his heart to her, immediately followed by what little food remained in his stomach, was not what he had in mind.

They all spent most of their time apart, lost in their own little worlds. Only Much remained his normal self, and it was Much who was the only one who spoke to him for any length of time, thoroughly enjoying the view from the moral high ground and prattling away about the high jinks he'd missed out on whilst in Guy's employ. This was always followed by a series of verbal barbs and jabs that held no possibility of wearing out any time soon. Allan gritted his teeth and bore it.

Meanwhile, Robin had wrapped himself in a steely silence, his eyes almost permanently fixed on the unchanging horizon. His thoughts were racing ahead to Acre, to Marian, following his own silver thread with all the intensity and focus he could muster. When he wasn't silent, he was surly, and Allan knew better than to push his luck in his vicinity. Only Djaq dared approach him, occasionally lending him her silent company, or speaking to him quietly in her own tongue – and by their gestures and expressions Allan presumed they were planning what moves needed to be made once they reached the Holy Land.

She was going home, he realized one night, as he hunkered down by the starboard side of the ship, braced between two barrels. What was dangerous and alien and unfamiliar to the rest of them would be comfort and belonging and home to her. For some reason, the thought made him uncomfortable, and he unconsciously reached up and tugged on the tag around his neck, enjoying the light weight of it in his palm. He didn't know who had returned it to him – he had awoken to find it draped around his neck, and none of the others had mentioned, or even seemed to notice its return the following day. The enigma made him restless.

He was feeling particularly wretched that evening, the choppy sea resulting in his head hanging over the side of the ship for what seemed like the hundredth time, when he heard footsteps behind him. Oh God, not now, his mind groaned. As he hazily raised his head, a small bottle slowly gained focus in front of his eyes. Weakly, he took the small container from the hand that offered it, and raised it to his lips. A strange, bitter flavour filled his mouth, almost immediately settling his nausea. Swallowing thankfully, he wiped his mouth and looked up…into Will's vaguely amused face.

"Better?" he asked.

"Mm," he grunted, not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed.

"Robin says we'll reach port within the week."

"Thank God."

"There's a safe-house we're going to – a friend of Djaq's family."

Allan risked a look at the young carpenter. His tone wasn't exactly friendly, but there was no malice or shortness in his voice either. He was simply relating the necessary information. If it hadn't been for the months of separation, Allan could have believed nothing had ever changed between them.

"Robin's pretty wound up about the King. I think…I think things are going to be over soon. If we can reach his Majesty in time – Robin is certain that he can convince him to declare peace."

A trace of excited animation lit up Will's eyes.

"Just think – the war will be over, the king will return. And once King Richard's back on the throne, England will be saved. No more sheriff, no more Gisbourne."

Allan, who could care less about the throne or what backside was sitting on it, attempted to steer the conversation back into a more interesting direction by handing back the small bottle.

"What was in that?"

"Don't know. She just said it would help settle your stomach."

"Why didn't she bring it herself?"

There was a pause, one that lingered for a moment too long.

"I told her I would."

Slumped against the railings as the ship bucked up and down, Allan tried to pass off the uneasiness inside him as more sea-sickness. But Djaq's concoction was too good for that. He cleared his throat. _Don't let him know,_ he told himself firmly.

"You two," he said out loud. "You two…suit each other."

Will gave a wary smile, obviously suspicious about the depth of his sincerity. Then with a short nod, he abruptly stood, and stalked back below decks. Thankful of his regained solitude, Allan allowed himself a long groan of frustration.

He knew full well that Robin's thoughts were far from King Richard and the intrigues of politics. They were with Marian. If he knew one thing about Guy and Robin, those two strangely similar men, it was that those two would chase her with a single-minded intensity to the ends of the earth. It was Marian, not the King, or England, or any lofty ideals of heroism or victory that drove Robin forward – it was Marian, waiting for him at the end of all his suffering and tribulation.

And – in Guy's mind at least - waiting for Guy too, who had foolishly pinned all his hopes of redemption on a single person, worshiping her with all the devotion of a priest before his cross. Well, they could have her, her in all her knife-throwing, mad-scheming, right-hook-punching insanity. He'd had quite enough of that particular woman (it was her fault he was on this bleedin' ship in the first place) and now he had his own destination, his own point of focus to move toward. All he wanted now was to speak with the one good thing he'd ever known in his life. Once that happened, he was certain everything else would fall into place.

_Will was a good thing too_, came the thought, unbidden into his mind. Young, naïve Will, who had somehow slipped into the role of his little brother, even before Tom's demise. The brother he'd wanted Tom to be – devoted, earnest, companionable – a brother that had been unsullied by his own bad influence. Perhaps Will had been the reason he'd trusted Tom so easily that day, when he'd seen him spinning lies so guilelessly to an amused Robin and Much. Will had tricked him into believing brothers were loyal to one another. But Tom had had no qualms about picking up where he'd left off – not even Allan had been exempt from the con-artistry he himself had taught him. That's what he'd learnt from his brother. And if speaking his thoughts to Djaq meant hurting Will...he shook his head and stubbornly put an end to that line of thought, raising his hood above his head and hunching his shoulders. Speaking with Djaq would mean speaking the truth. There was nothing wrong with that. It's what he should have done from the start.

* * *

**Part Three: Bassam's House**

He was wide awake and staring at the ceiling when he heard the sounds of movement from across the room. Glancing across the room, he watched as Djaq shifted on the divan that they had all unanimously agreed should go to her. The others had laid out pallets on the floor, (Will rolling his out at the base of the divan) all falling asleep instantly. All except for Allan, and – as it would seem – Djaq. She was raising her arm, which had been draped over the side of her resting place, carefully unclasping her hand from its resting place in Will's own. There was no sound but the soft cooing and shuffling of the pigeons as she stepped across Will's sleeping form and moved carefully across the room, avoiding the assorted outlaws and their weapons strewn across the floor. She disappeared from view, and a moment later he heard the latch of the door click open and then close again.

Curious, he slipped out from beneath his blankets, and treaded quietly after her. She had gone, and yet her sword remained, leaning against the side of the divan where she'd positioned it the night before. Wherever she'd gone, she'd gone unarmed.

_Hardly the time or place for midnight exertions,_ he thought to himself, swiftly fetching his own weapon and casting his eye over the others. He couldn't let her wander around by herself at night.

_Then why don't you wake Will?_ hissed the tiny voice of his conscience. But with the ease that came from practice, he pushed it aside, unlatched the door, and slipped into the cold night.

She was easy to follow since she was the only moving figure out in the surprisingly bright moonlight. Confused at her leisurely pace, he decided not to call out or catch up with her – for all he knew he wasn't welcome. Instead he moved in the shadows of the stucco buildings, his eyes fixed on the slight, hooded figure moving ahead of him.

It was only when he momentarily lost sight of her at a particularly baffling crossroads, before seeing the movement of her headscarf as she stood waiting, that he realised she knew he was there, and wanted him to follow. He abandoned the attempt to be stealthy, and simply followed her, several paces behind in the twisting streets. With no sense of direction, and every street looking just the same to him, he was soon hopelessly lost.

He supposed he should be nervous, but everything was so blurred by his exhaustion already, and it was all so much like a dream that he could almost see the silver thread in his mind's eye pulling him along behind the diminutive figure. Stifling a yawn, he threw his faith upon Djaq, who was walking with certain steps, leading him onwards to God-only-knew.

After loosing his sense of direction, his notion of the time soon followed, and it was with a start that he realised the rows of buildings had stopped, and he was suddenly some place new.

He looked out on the expanse of the desert, sloping down away from his feet, the moon poised in the sky before him so close and bright he felt that he could reach out and touch it with his fingertips. Djaq was a dark figure below him, having already drifted down the sand dune with her head scarf fluttering out behind her like a banner, heading for a fenced portion of land on the outskirts of the city.

As alien as this place was to him, it was unmistakably a graveyard, and for the first time he hesitated, his superstitious mind flickering a warning. But now Djaq was moving between the graves below him and his fear left him as he stepped into the footprints she'd left behind her in the sand. The vague sight of Djaq in the darkness swiftly sharpened and gained focus as he descended the slope and neared the rows of graves, her solemn features finally clear. She had stopped in front of a grave marked out with white stones, and as he approached she raised her dark eyes to greet him.

It was the first time she'd looked at him since she'd opened the barn door for him, months ago in Nettlestone. He tore his eyes from her face and made himself look down at the grave marker at their feet. Even though he couldn't decipher the name on the stone, he didn't need to be told what it said, and who was buried here.

"You remind me so much of him," she finally said. "He was never still – always restless, always in trouble. It was my job to get him out of it again, but…that is what got him killed in the end."

She drifted off into a reverie, and it was only burning curiosity that made him break the silence.

"How did he die?"

She swallowed, her eyes fixed determinedly on the simple grave, her face tense. He had the strangest feeling that she was telling him something she'd been holding onto for years.

"He was too young to go to war, not nearly experienced enough. My father forbade him from fighting, but that did not stop him – he just waited until nightfall. I tried to convince him to stay, but it was the one time in his life he wasn't going to listen to me. I knew what he had planned, but I didn't want him to get in trouble, and the Crusaders didn't seem that frightening compared to my father when he was angry."

She paused for a moment, and then spoke carefully and deliberately, her voice picking out each syllable of her second language.

"I should have spoken out; I should have woken my father. But he was so certain – so sure that he could look after himself."

Unconsciously, she raised a hand to her cropped hair.

"Afterwards, all I could do was remember him."

He cringed internally at his tribute to his own dead brother – to put himself in the employ of his murderer, and suddenly all the things he wanted to say to her faded away. He slumped his shoulders in defeat. How could he possibly explain himself in a way that didn't seem petulant and pathetic?

All his carefully planned reasoning to excuse what he'd done – the terror of torture and his anxiety about the future, Robin's off-handed treatment of him and the frustration of helping people who were never grateful enough, the endless cold nights and the yawning gulf of an empty stomach – hadn't she suffered all those things too? In the brightness of the moon he could glimpse the edge of her acid-scarred wrist peeking out from under her sleeve. To think now that he could justify himself seemed as idiotic as a young boy believing he could join the fight against the marauding Crusaders and return unscathed.

He swallowed down all those pointless words, embarrassed he had even considered trying to defend himself, and said something else instead.

"I don't think it was your fault he died, luv. If he and I were as alike as you say we are, then I can you straight – he would have found another way to leave. People like us – when we get our minds fixed on something…we head toward it without thinking properly. No matter who else gets hurt on the way, we just…we think we can have everything."

He stopped for a breath, and risked a glance at her face. She was watching him intently.

"Djaq would have known you wouldn't have ratted him out to your father – he wouldn't have confided in your otherwise. So it's not your fault that he trusted you…and you did right by him not to give the game away. It was his choice to make, even if was the wrong one."

She turned away suddenly, and lifted a corner of her scarf to her face. He stepped back for a moment, pushing back the rest of what he dearly wanted to tell her. In the space of three seconds he was determined now never to tell her anything. His brother, her brother, and Allan himself – all so alike. After so much, she deserved someone like Will: someone steady and dependable, someone who wouldn't bring her any more pain.

He averted his eyes as Djaq composed herself, and then listened as she continued speaking of Djaq – the real Djaq – and their childhood together, enjoying the sensation of being spoken to by someone who wasn't hurling knives, food, or other assorted implements at him, in a tone that wasn't barking orders, threats or insults, with eyes that weren't suspicious or accusory.

As the night wore on, they lapsed back into silence, gazing down at the grave. It grew steadily colder, but at some point Djaq had slipped her hand into Allan's own, and the space between their palms grew warm, as though a tiny heart was beating there. There they remained, both lost in thoughts of their brothers.

Then she took a breath and turned to face him.

"Will and I have been talking. And we've decided that when this is over – when we've found Marian and the King is safe and peace is secured – we're going to stay here."

His heart sank. He could grow accustomed to their togetherness, could make peace with the fact he'd lost his chance forever…but to loose them – both of them – so completely?

"We want you to stay with us. If you want to, that is. I know things are…different now, but back in the forest – it was always the three of us…and we know that you worry about what will happen once the war is over-"

Again he winced at the memory of his attempt to run away to Scarborough with Will and a pile of loot – was there ever anything he had ever done that hadn't disappointed her?

"But it's important that you know – there's a place for you with us. Your friends."

He stood gazing at her, stunned…that they had considered him like this…that they'd forgiven him…arranged a place for him. He couldn't help it – a huge grin crossed his face and he beamed down at her. His delight was clearly catching, for she smiled back, for what seemed like the first time in years.

"Yeah…alright…I could get used to it here," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, though he knew his face was giving the game away.

"Come on then," she said, rearranging her scarf over her hair. "It will be morning in a few hours."

She paused once more, and reached out a hand to brush the top of her brother's grave lightly with her fingertips.

"I'm glad you saw this place Allan," she told him, and together they moved swiftly across the sand, through the quiet streets, and to the waiting doorway of Bassam's house.

* * *

**Part Four: The Desert**

It was the calm after the storm. Everyone was still stunned, heartbroken, horrified. They had regrouped at Bassam's house, and a terrible stillness had come over them all. Then the dam that had been building in Robin's mind had finally broken, and he stormed about like a madman, ranting and raving. Not even John dared try to restrain him, and Much could only watch him like a distraught child, completely stricken, beyond any words of comfort. Will and Djaq had retreated completely, and when Robin's wordless roars of fury subsided into sobs, Allan, who had been lurking in the corner, slunk out into the street.

At the time, in that chaos of sand and shadowy figures, all of them lost in the confusing mess of sun-bleached ruins, he'd been alone with the two of them for a few moments, and there was a crazed feeling of total euphoria, a single moment of complete happiness born of the simple fact that they were together and moving at the same pace, in the same direction, with the same intent – just before the yells and screams from across the sand pulled them up like three horses whose reins had been suddenly yanked.

Whilst all other eyes had been on the white-shrouded figure on the sand, his were the only eyes who had cast a glimpse in the direction of the black-clad man staggering toward his horse. He'd seen Guy's face, seen the despair and anguish upon it, realized soon afterwards that he was the only person on earth who could possibly hazard a guess as to what had passed between the two of them in those final, fatal moments. He knew that somehow the long-concealed truth had finally emerged between them, and that Guy's sword had plunged into her in the same manner that an arrow had once skewered a bag of silver on a tavern table. Both he and Marian had been fools to think their lies would protect them forever – yet somehow he was still here, whilst she now lay with the real Djaq under the sand of a vast desert.

_Heck, I didn't even like her all that much,_ he told himself. And she certainly hadn't liked him. She'd used him, manipulated him, threatened him, scornfully dismissed him and hissed orders to him – and in doing so, opened up his path back to Djaq and Will. Given him one last chance to be what Djaq believed he was – whether he liked it or not.

Which was why he was going back to England. He couldn't be with them yet, not while he still had amends to make. Not while Robin needed him – not that Robin was aware of that fact, just as Marian had been largely unaware of his discreet allegiance to her.

But it was clear to him that Robin did need him – needed him to shed light on what had happened and why… when he was ready to hear it. Needed him, because the defeated Lord of Locksley had lost his purpose for fighting, lost his goal for the future that he had worked towards for so long. Allan still had his, and Robin would need to see it in action if he was to do what was expected of him.

It would be hard – the three outlaws that remained barely trusted him, and he couldn't ignore that final bit of twisted loyalty he held toward the wretched Guy of Gisbourne, a knot of pity that grew out of sincere understanding. Both had come to the Holy Land with a woman in the forefront of their minds – both were now leaving without her.

In the cool stillness of Bassam's home, the outlaws mingled, waiting for Robin to emerge from the room Bassam had offered him for privacy as he mustered up his strength for the next stage of the journey. Djaq was quietly talking to John and Much in the courtyard – from the woebegone look on Much's face, he could guess that she was breaking the news to him that she and Will were staying. And it was time to tell Will that he was leaving.

The young man was gathering the weapons together, checking them over with his experienced eye for any improvements that needed to be made before they were out of his hands for good.

"Hey," Allan said as he approached. He wasn't going to waste any time. "I'm heading back with Robin. Going back to England."

Will looked up suddenly, startled.

"What? Why?" he asked, and Allan was touched to see a moment of sincere disappointment in the youth's eyes. He shuddered internally to think how close he'd come to sabotaging this young man's happiness.

"Lots of reasons. Besides, you two need time to be alone together. I don't want to get in the way of that."

It was an easy lie, but somehow a worthy one.

"And you two…you tried to give me the easy way out. By letting staying here, that is. And there's some stuff I've got to do first."

Wry speculation mingled with regret – and just a touch of relief – on Will's face, before his usual stoicism took its place.

"So you might come back…later on."

"When all this is over…when King Richard's back on the throne. Yeah, I'll come back."

He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.

"So – you'll tell Djaq for me? I don't want her to think I'll leaving 'cause I don't want to stay."

Will nodded. "Yes, I'll tell her."

There was still so much to say – in a burst of final desperation Allan wanted to admit everything to Will: the torture in the dungeons, the words that were chosen with such perfection to ensure his defection to the status of spy, his steadfast belief that he could pull off this particular con without anyone getting hurt, the hurried rendezvous in the tavern when he'd pushed the silver back just a moment too late… but Robin's emergence from the back room, his eyes fixed and his movements brisk, silenced him.

_Just as well,_ he thought. He would carry his excuses and explanations for a little while longer – the weight of them should remind him to stay on the straight and narrow, till he could return to this strange land when things were calmer, and properly explain himself to the two people who mattered most.

In the bustle of journey preparations that followed, Allan glimpsed Will whispering something to Djaq, whose features sank for a moment before swiftly regaining tranquillity. He hid a smile. Two of a kind, those two.

A few moments later, as the outlaws gathered near the entrance, Djaq approached, a wicker basket in her hands.

"This is for you," she said. "His name is Lardner."

Ever so briefly, his fingers had brushed against hers as he took the gift from her hands, and he peered intently through the gaps in the wicker to hide his discomfort.

"Is this…to eat?"

She stifled a chuckle, conscious of Robin's close presence, and shook her head.

"No. He is a homing pigeon. To send Will and I a message if the need arises. Just attach a message to the ring on his foot and let him fly home to us."

He remembered now, the pigeon that had flown the length of their sea voyage to bring Robin's words of warning to the King.

"How does he know where to fly?" he asked her as Will approached.

Oddly enough, Djaq suddenly stiffened, her features frozen in a blank smile. He wrinkled his brow in confusion as she uncharacteristically struggled for words.

"He…he…he just knows…" She lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, looking flustered, as Will glanced at the two of them.

Allan blinked, and looked dazedly back at Will. Had he missed something? But now the others were moving forward for their goodbyes, and he was gently buffeted aside as his friends turned their attention to Much and John. He found himself standing next to Bassam, who had been watching him with an odd half-smile on his face.

"The bird flies true," he said in stilting English. Allan nodded uncertainly. Then, glancing briefly at Djaq, the old man leaned in conspiratorially.

"It is a rare thing for a man to have the strength to relinquish his hate," he whispered. "…but an even greater thing to let go of love."

Allan smiled uneasily – clearly this bloke matched Much in the brains department. And yet in the same instance, his words triggered an unconsidered possibility in his mind. Earlier he had compared himself to Gisbourne, and yet thinking it over now, he was stunned with the thought that had he truly been in Guy's state of mind, it would have been Djaq's lovely body impaled upon a sword, crumpling into the sand. In all the times he'd lied to her face and betrayed her trust, the thought that he'd ever actually put her – or any of them for that matter – in danger from his own hand had remained beyond his ability to conceive.

Looking at the wise face of this semi-stranger, he wondered if perhaps Djaq had been right about him after all. Glancing back at the couple – now saying goodbye to Robin - his sharp ears overhead him tell Will: "Look after her."

_Damn, why didn't I say that?_ he thought, but then casting one last glance back at them, at Djaq tucked securely under Will's arm, he realized he didn't have to. Instead he concentrated on not looking at Robin's grief-ravaged face and counted himself lucky. At least Djaq was alive. Alive, and safe, and happy.

**

* * *

**

**Epilogue**

He looked up into the face of King Richard and managed a bemused smile – that this foolish man, the cause of so much grief, was the figurehead under which they all fought. Of course, he had never fought for any king, he'd fought for himself, tooth and nail, blindly and selfishly. But now, as he stepped into the shadow that stretched out behind Robin's defeated figure, he knew what he was fighting for, the destination he was moving towards. The two people he loved, waiting for him over miles of sand and sea, at the end of a silver thread.

_The End_


End file.
